


things you may come to understand on a dark night

by morningsound15



Category: Supergirl (TV 2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1960s, Butch Kara Danvers, Dirty Dancing, Enemies to Lovers, F/F, Pining, Slow Burn, it's a dirty dancing au but with a twist
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:55:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21962458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morningsound15/pseuds/morningsound15
Summary: “Think you can keep that straight, Kara?” Morgan Edge says with a smirk as he folds napkins at the table. “What you can and can’t lay your hands on?”The man, who Lena now realizes with startling clarity is actually awoman,just scoffs at him. “Just put your pickle on everybody’s plate, college boy, and leave the hard stuff to me.”Lena stares at her, open-mouthed and disbelieving.Lena lingers long after she’s left, frozen in place, a queer, unexplainable feeling in her stomach. Something nervous, and confusing. Something she can’t quite decipher.**What can I say? It’s a SuperCorp Dirty Dancing AU.
Relationships: Kara Danvers/Lena Luthor
Comments: 16
Kudos: 111





	things you may come to understand on a dark night

**Author's Note:**

> There’s some period-typical racism, homophobia, and transphobia scattered throughout this story. There’s nothing too explicit, no outward violence against POC or LGBTQ characters or anything like that, just general ignorance and misinformation. I’ve tried to handle all scenes as respectfully as possible, but please let me know if something bothers you; I’m willing to edit and make adjustments if I’ve seriously erred.
> 
> Also: minor violence, discussion of abortion, period-typical sexism, etc. etc. It’s the 60s shit was messed up.

________________

The summer of 1963 isn’t particularly rainy, nor is it particularly dry, nor sunny, nor nice, nor retched. It is, by all measures, perfectly normal. Late May is dominated by tepid temperatures with intermittent rainstorms cutting between otherwise banal, stagnant days. But with the arrival of June, and the heart of summer — like all summers in this part of the country — temperatures continue to grow consistently, oppressively hotter. Lena spends most of early June with every window in her bedroom thrown wide open. Stripped down to her socks and undergarments she pants, hoping for some cool breath of wind, some breeze to stir the air from atop her skin and provide her with a modicum of relief.

She awaits their trip to Silver Lake breathlessly, longing for a reprieve, for a break in her mundane and repetitive schedule, for a chance to outrun the heat and the house and summer in D.C.; a chance to escape it all.

It’s the summer of 1963. Lena will be headed to college in the fall. She’s going to Vassar, a perfectly respectable college for a woman of her standing, so her family had no reason to object to her going. Her mother put up a bit of a resistance to the idea, hoping instead that Lena would settle down with a husband sooner rather than later, but once her college acceptance letters started arriving, and her father began making arrangements for her to move in the fall, she had finally fallen silent. If Lena hadn’t managed to make it into a decent school… well, she doesn’t like to think about that possibility. (Lex had gone to Oxford, but Lena hadn’t been accepted — hadn’t even gotten close, what with being an American and with there being so few spots for women already — and she doubts she’ll ever live down the humiliation.) But it’s the 60s, after all, and women are expected to have careers now before marriage. Lilian can hardly object to _that._

The summer of ‘63 is in many ways a pivot, a turning point, a lynch-pin transforming her from adolescent to adult. But as she is still only 18, not every remnant of her childhood has been scrubbed away. Everyone in her family still calls her ‘Baby’, a nickname from childhood that has been used for so long that it doesn’t even occur to her to mind.

There are many things that Lena doesn’t know about the future. She doesn’t know that President Kennedy will be assassinated in only a few months; that the Beatles will be coming to America next winter; that next summer the most sweeping civil rights protections in the country’s history will become constitutional law. All Lena knows is that she can’t wait to move away from her family and begin her own life, can’t wait to become independent and start making her mark on the world, can’t wait to meet the man who will become her husband, and fall in love.

It’s the summer they go to _Grant’s_.

. . . .

It seems every wealthy family on the Eastern Seaboard arrives at Grant’s at the same time as them. When they pull up to the front of the resort its long circular driveway is already packed with cars with their doors thrown open, luggage spilling out onto the gravel. There are workers scurrying in every direction laden high with guest baggage, a man standing near the front door seemingly directing traffic, and another round-ish man with a ruddy face bellowing activities into a megaphone from his spot underneath the American flag.

They’ve barely clambered out of the car before Lex rips off his sunglasses and curses under his breath. Lena glances in the direction he’s staring, at a young man in a pressed white uniform struggling towards the door of a newly-occupied cabin as a pile of shoeboxes teeters in his grasp. His cheeks are red and he eyes the stack with panic written all over his face and sweat on his upper lip as he weaves, desperately trying to avoid a spill.

“Look at that,” Lex hisses with something like disgust. He tugs the sweater wrapped around his neck a little tighter and puffs out his chest, straining the buttons of his polo. “Disgusting. The _waste_ of it. Fifty pairs of shoes just to spend the summer slow dancing with a bunch of geriatrics.” He shakes his head, his lip turned up in a scowl.

Lilian smiles at him, her teeth glinting like ice. “Well, Sweetheart, _you_ brought ten pairs.” Lex turns his glare towards his mother.

“ _This_ is not a tragedy,” Lionel says with a sigh, walking around the front of the car towards the boot, where another man in uniform is panting under the weight of Lex’s over-stuffed trunk. “A tragedy is three men trapped in a mine, or police dogs used in Birmingham.”

Lena is quick to jump in. “Monks burning themselves in protest,” she offers teasingly in her brother’s direction.

Her father winks at her, a slight nod to their shared comradery. Lilian and Lex have no interest in politics or the news and Lena quietly suspects that despite their father’s positions on issues of civil rights, Lex might actually be virulently anti-Black. But Lena’s always been a bit of a Daddy’s girl — sitting by the fire with him while he listens to the evening news, accompanying him to his practice in D.C. when she’s on summer break. It’s proven beneficial for the both of them — like having a guaranteed ally behind enemy lines. And it doesn’t hurt that Lex is definitely jealous of her relationship with their father. (It’s really the only time _he’s_ ever been jealous of _her,_ and, spitefully, Lena has relished in the feeling.)

Lex rolls his eyes. “Butt out, Baby.”

“WE GOT HORSESHOES ON THE SOUTH LAWN IN 15 MINUTES,” the man with the megaphone shouts over the noise of scurrying workers and frazzled travelers. “WE’VE GOT SPLISH-SPLASH, THE WATER CLASS AT THE LAKE. WE HAVE THE STILL-LIFE ART CLASS. WE’VE GOT VOLLEYBALL AND CROQUET.”

“Lionel!” A voice cuts into their tiny family drama. They all turn to see a tall man in a decent grey suit, brown tie clipped to his shirt and matching pocket square arranged perfectly on his breast, striding towards them. He’s flanked by a much younger man in a red track jacket, hands shoved in pockets. Lena’s father brightens at their appearance.

“Maxwell Grant,” Lionel beams, shaking Mr. Grant’s offered hand with both of his.

Mr. Grant’s hairline is receding. The grey tufts of hair on top of his scalp flutter in the breeze. His ears are large and his earlobes dangle, and his neck bulges a little too far over his collar, making it appear as if he has no neck at all. “After all these years,” he says to Lionel, “I finally got you up on my mountain.”

Lionel chuckles. “How’s the blood pressure, Max?”

Mr. Grant, still with their father’s hands clasped in his own, turns his attention towards the Luthor children. “I want you kids to know,” he says seriously, “that if it were not for this man, I’d be standing here dead.” Lena does her best to smile politely at him. He turns to his shadow. “Morgan,” he scolds, “get the _bags._ ”

The young man, Morgan, finally pulls his hands out of his pockets. “Right away, Sir,” he says, scurrying away.

“You remember my wife, Catherine,” Mr. Grant says to Lionel. A woman appears from behind him, and Lena almost startles at her sudden arrival. “She’s in charge of all staffing and management,” Mr. Grant continues. “Couldn’t run the place without her.” Mrs. Grant looks younger than her husband, though it’s hard to tell by how much. She’s stick thin and clearly well put-together, with neatly coiffed blonde hair that hangs in a bob down to her shoulders.

Mrs. Grant sticks out her hand and Lena is impressed by her brashness. Her father looks like he is, too. “Cat,” she says simply, giving his hand one firm shake before releasing it and letting her arms fold over her chest. “These are your children?”

“Yes. My oldest, Lex. He works in London. And my youngest, Lena, is starting college in the fall.”

Mrs. Grant hums and eyes Lena carefully, her face an unreadable mask. Lena feels rather like she’s being sized-up. “And what are you hoping to study, Lena?”

Lena falters, a little put-off by the question. It’s not a question she’s unfamiliar with — she’s been asked about her aspirations every day of her life since she turned twelve — but it’s one she’s unused to answering truthfully. Usually she equivocates, elides, claims a modicum of uncertainty. Better that than face the ridicule of telling the truth. But for some reason, she can’t bring herself to lie to Cat Grant. (Maybe it’s the fact that she didn’t even acknowledge Lex — by all means the Luthors’ favored child — in favor of Lena, someone totally unaccomplished and wholly unspectacular. Maybe it’s the way Lex is shifting behind her, clearly annoyed at being ignored. Maybe she’s suffering an aneurism. Who’s to say?)

“Mathematics,” she answers truthfully, surprising herself. “Or astronomy, maybe.”

Mrs. Grant raises an eye. “Astronomy?”

“Baby wants to work for _NASA_ ,” Lex cuts in, and Lena can practically _hear_ his eyes rolling back into his skull. “As if they’ll ever let women go to _space_. We’re not the _Soviets._ ”

“I don’t want to go to space,” Lena can’t stop herself from snapping at him. “I want to _study_ it not—” She cuts herself off, suddenly remembering their company. With a soft flush and downturned eyes, she mutters a quiet apology to Mrs. Grant. “Sorry,” she says, “it’s nothing. It’s stupid.”

But Mrs. Grant doesn’t sound annoyed with her when she says, “I think it sounds very interesting.”

“As do I!” Mr. Grant joins in with a winning smile. “You’re sure to do great things there. You’ll be a real trailblazer.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

“Well,” Mr. Grant claps his hands together, “I’ve saved the best cabin for you and your family. And there’s a meringue class in the gazebo in the next few minutes. Greatest teacher.” He turns his conspiratorial eyes between Lionel and Lillian. “She used to be a _Rockette._ ”

Lillian’s smile doesn’t show one sign of cracking, but the lines next to her eyes grow tighter. Lionel throws an arm around her shoulder and squeezes. (In warning? Lena can’t tell.) “It’s his first real vacation in 6 years, Max,” Lillian says with forced control. “Take it easy.”

“3 weeks here, it’ll feel like a _year.”_

Morgan reappears at Mr. Grant’s elbow. “I’ve had all the bags sent to cabin 6, Sir.”

“Excellent. Thank you, Morgan. Doc, you remember the young man I was telling you about, right? Morgan Edge? He’s very special, a Yale man, you know.” He winks, his hand heavy on Morgan’s shoulder. “I’ve asked him to watch out for Baby while you’re all here, I hope you don’t mind.”

All eyes turn to Lena. She pinks under the attention but returns Morgan’s smile when she sees it.

“I don’t mind at all.” Lionel holds out his hand. “Nice to meet you, son.”

“Nice to meet you too, Doctor Luthor.”

“Are you sure Morgan will have enough time to show Lena around this summer?” Mrs. Grant asks easily, laying a gentle hand on her husband’s arm. There’s something to the flick of her eyes that unsettles Lena, though it’s not clear why. “He’s studying to get into medical school too, on top of this job. I’m sure _James_ would be more than happy to—”

“James is working in the kitchens. With the others.” There’s a tightness to Mr. Grant’s smile. Mrs. Grant drops her hand from his arm immediately. “He can’t be spared.” He turns back to the Luthors, his easy grin back in place. “Morgan will be an excellent guide. I have full faith in him.”

. . . .

“Mom, Dad, I’m going up to the main house to look around!”

Lena skips down the steps of their cabin, her dress loose and flowing down to her knees. She has a cardigan on, an ugly, oversized green thing that she’s had for years. It won’t win her any beauty awards, but it’s the most comfortable thing she owns, and the weather is cooler at this altitude. Once she gets to the grass she’s glad she brought it, because the lawn is cold and damp under her sandaled feet, already covered with evening dew, and she pulls the knitted fabric a little tighter around her torso to cut against the extra chill. The sun is low in the sky, already disappeared behind the main house and its surrounding hills, so everything outside has the slight tint of blue to it, signaling impending night. The grass seems to glow more vibrantly than earlier, and Lena picks her way through it carefully, mesmerized. The grounds are completely empty; not a guest, golf cart, or employee in sight. All the lawn furniture has been tucked away neatly, the orange and white table umbrellas have been collapsed. The crickets are loud, nearly deafening, and they grow louder as Lena approaches the main house. There are fireflies dancing in the sky above the field. Lena has to stop and stare at them for a moment, thousands of tiny stars suspended at eye-level, so many in number that Lena thinks if she reached out she could scoop a handful with barely any effort.

She walks along the balcony of the main house, the old wood creaking below her feet, the smell of pine and paint and dust filling her nostrils. She leans onto the railing and surveys the sprawling lands in front of her. Besides the main lodge and the surrounding cabins, it’s all woodlands, and towards the edge of the property a lake peeks through a clearing of trees. It’s quiet up in the mountains. Still. There are no sounds of cars, no bustling city life to distract from the sky and the air and the bugs and the grass. Lena closes her eyes and inhales deeply, slowly, trying to suspend herself in the moment.

“There are two kinds of help, here,” a voice filters from somewhere inside. Lena frowns, turning and walking closer to the warm light of the dining room behind her. She is careful to stay in the shadows so as not to be caught eavesdropping. “You waiters are college guys,” Max is speaking to a crowd of young men in white tuxedos, “and I went to Harvard and Yale to hire you. And why did I do that? Why? I shouldn’t have to remind you. This is a _family_ place. That means you keep your fingers out of the water, your hair out of the soup, and you show the goddamn daughters a good time. _All_ the daughters. Even the dogs. Schlep them out of the terrace, show them the stars, romance ‘em any way you want.”

“You got that guys?” a man calls as he walks into the room, a group of men and women in tow. He looks more of a ruffian than any of the other workers Lena’s seen since getting here. His hair is slicked back and the leather jacket thrown over his shoulders is worn with age and use. His arms are loose and bare at his sides, sunglasses perched on his nose even though it’s dark out. The group behind him laughs, and Lena looks at them in wonder.

“Hold it!” Mr. Grant calls. The crowd of young people stop, a few of them lounging, a couple smirk between themselves. The man at the front of the crowd pulls off his sunglasses, revealing bright blue eyes. “Well,” Mr. Grant says, stalking forward, “if it isn’t the _entertainment_ staff.” He spits the word like it sits filthy on his tongue. “Listen, wise ass, you got your own rules. Dance with the daughters. Teach them the mambo, the cha-cha, anything they pay for. But that’s _it. That’s_ where it ends. No funny business, no conversations, and keep your hands off!”

“It’s the same at all these places,” a young woman mocks. “Some ass in the woods maybe, but no conversation.” The entertainment guys laugh. Lena watches it all, enraptured.

“Watch it, Vasquez.” Mr. Grant shoots as he shoots one more glare, before he stalks out of the dining room.

“Think you can keep that straight, Kara?” Morgan Edge says with a smirk as he folds napkins at the table. “What you can and can’t lay your hands on?”

The man, who Lena now realizes with startling clarity is actually a _woman,_ just scoffs at him. “Just put your pickle on everybody’s plate, college boy,” she sneers, “and leave the hard stuff to me.”

Morgan scowls, and the woman pulls her jacket off, revealing strong, broad shoulders and rippling back muscles that stand out through her tight white t-shirt. Lena stares at her, open-mouthed and disbelieving. She pushes a hand through her hair and whistles, and the entertainment staff, en masse, march from the room.

Lena lingers long after they’ve left, frozen in place, a queer, unexplainable feeling in her stomach. Something nervous and confusing. Something she can’t quite decipher.

. . . .

They have their own table at dinner, and more food than they could hope to ever eat. More food than they have even on Christmas, and this is just a random Monday in the middle of summer.

They’ve had attentive service from Morgan, Mr. Grant’s hand-picked waiter for them, all evening. Every time a napkin falls to the floor he’s there to scoop it up and re-fold it. Every time a wine glass gets halfway empty he’s there to refill it. He always manages to stand with his back to Lena’s father, so that when his eyes catch hers (as they inevitably do, because he has a propensity for staring) he’s able to shoot her a sly wink. Lena attempts to smile back at him, but she thinks it comes across as more of a grimace. She finds him altogether smarmy. His flashing teeth make her skin crawl.

Lillian, at least, seems pleased by the attention they’re being given. She preens at the extra attention and helps herself liberally to the endless supply of wine. When the meal is done, there’s still enough food piled on their table to feed them all for the next two days. “Look at all this leftover food,” Lillian says with a morose sigh. “Are there still starving children in Europe?”

“Southeast Asia, mother.”

“Morgan,” Lionel calls, and the young man appears as if he’d been hovering on the edge of time, just waiting to be spoken into existence for the sole purpose of doing another man’s bidding, “Baby wants to send her leftover pot roast to Southeast Asia.” Lionel’s eyes twinkle. “So anything we don’t finish, you wrap up.”

“Right away, Sir.”

Max appears behind Lex’s shoulder. He drops a large hand on the back of Lex’s chair (who scowls into his own wine glass). “Morgan,” Mr. Grant says with ruddy cheeks and booming voice, clearly having indulged in the wine himself, “these people are my special guests. I want you to give them everything they ask for.”

Morgan’s eyes catch Lena’s and she bites her tongue to hide her grimace. She never should have looked at him. The grin he shoots her is lascivious, and Lena swallows down the urge to gag. “Of course, Mr. Grant,” he almost purrs (to Lena it sounds more like a snarl). “Whatever they want.”

Mr. Grant laughs jovially and snaps his fingers. “Doc, I want you to meet someone.” He snaps his fingers again, with a bit more urgency. A young man appears at his elbow, a little short in stature, with hair so long that it threatens to fall into his eyes. He’s handsome, Lena supposes with a measured examination, in a youthful, yuppie sort of way. “My son, Adam.” Mr. Grant introduces. “He goes to the Cornell School of Hotel Management.”

“Oh, Baby’s starting Vassar in the fall.”

“Oh, great.” Adam smiles at her and lifts his eyebrows. Lena smiles back, small and contained. His eyes have fixed on Lena’s face, and she feels uncomfortable under all this extra scrutiny. “Would you like to dance, Baby?”

Lena flushes a light pink. “I’m afraid I’m not much of a dancer.”

“Nonsense, there’s nothing difficult for a woman dancing. She just has to follow the man. And as long as she has a strong partner…” He holds a hand out for her, invitingly.

Lena glances towards Lex, who looks bored, and then her father, who seems pleased, and then finally to Lillian, who is shooting Lena a look so recognizable that Lena swallows her embarrassment and returns Adam’s smile as politely as she can manage. “Thank you,” she says as she takes his hand, allowing him to lead her to the floor.

The band is playing something easy, and they’re not the only couple who have decided to take advantage of the atmosphere. There are older couples around them, mostly swaying in place, but a few who seem practiced at some actual steps. It only takes a few moments for Lena to realize that Adam is a rather sorry excuse for a dancer, though he struts about with the stiff sort of confidence born of a man of his wealth. Lena tries to smile, and he grins back, seemingly oblivious when he treads on her toes.

“You going to major in English?” Adam asks her, condescendingly.

“No.” Lena can’t help but feel a little annoyed, whether at his poor dancing or his patronizing tone of voice. Perhaps a bit of both. “Mathematics and Astronomy, actually. I want to work for _NASA._ ”

He smiles at her. “After the final show, I’m going to head down to Mississippi with a couple of the boys, do some Freedom Riding.”

Lena’s smile grows a little more genuine, at that.

The band is very good. Lena’s always been a fan of jazz, though she’s rarely allowed to listen to it. (Lillian doesn’t approve of ‘colored’ music; she only allows classical and opera in their house, thinks it’s the only music for civilized, intellectual families and won’t abide anything current, or even anything of this century.) Adam is a fine dancing partner. He’s uncomfortable, but no more uncomfortable than Lena, and his posture is stiff and unyielding. They totter about the dance floor, but Lena is at least comforted by the fact that the senior citizens around them are having a fair deal more difficulty than they.

A couple of children, no older than 10, waltz their way through the crowd. The boy’s face is set seriously, and he spins his partner and dips her, and the girl follows his moves like she’s been trained in it. Lena can’t help but watch them a bit ruefully. She’s never been graceful, not even as a child. No matter how hard Lillian tried to instill the virtues of grace and poise within her, no matter how many dance or music lessons she bought, Lena’s always been helpless, awkward and clumsy, lacking in both rhythm and artistic ability. It’s why she so enjoys mathematics — there’s always a right answer, always a solution, a formula; if you make an error it is easily spotted, and easily fixed. Math makes _sense_ to her, in a way music and dancing never have.

These two children have more artistic ability at age 10 than Lena thinks she’ll ever have in her whole life.

The first song draws to a close and the band begins something much more up-tempo. A space on the dance floor clears at once, without any instruction. Lena can’t help but draw to a stop as something pink flashes in her periphery. It’s the woman she saw earlier, Kara, dressed in — of all things — a fitted tuxedo, and another woman, a dancer by the looks of it, in a floral pink dress that goes down to her shins. Kara spins her partner out away from her body only to pull her back in. There’s a complicated series of twists and leg flicks that make Lena’s head dizzy, doubly so because the dress the woman is wearing seems perfectly designed to kick up after her, making her seem as if she’s got 4 legs rather than 2. She’s pulled flush into Kara’s torso again before she dips back, her spine bending almost in two.

“Mambo!” Adam says, excitedly. “Yeah, come on!” He drags her towards the performance, and Lena’s feet carry her without thought.

She can’t help but gawk at the scene in front of her. The two women seem made of air, gliding across the floor together. They don’t communicate with words, but every action is coordinated, like they’re moving as one body rather than two. They alternate spinning each other under their arms, skipping in time to the beat, light steps that shoot them in a wide circle, kicking their knees up on every fourth step.

Lena can’t look away. “Who’s that?”

Adam is looking at them too, though his mouth has formed into a thin line at Lena’s obvious interest. “Oh, them,” he says growing less excited the longer they watch. “They’re the _dance_ people. They’re here to keep the, uh, guests happy.”

The dancers spin, pulling away from each other and pulling back in. They separate for a moment, dancing out in a wide circle before, like magnets, coming face-to-face together. It’s a marvelous dance. A series of mirrored movements, kick steps and arms thrown out, spinning in tight circles but with their eyes almost always locked, like they can’t bear to look away from each other. Lena watches it all and _burns_ without knowing why.

“They shouldn’t be showing off with each other,” Adam scolds quietly. “That’s not going to sell any lessons.”

The woman in the dress kicks her leg up high and Lena’s stomach twists as she falls backward. A few people in the crowd gasp, as if worried she might tumble to the floor, but Kara catches her around the small of her back and yanks her up again. She is balanced only on the balls of her feet, Lena notices belatedly. The heels of her shoes never even touch the ground.

Lena and Adam aren’t the only couple who have stopped dancing. Many in the crowd of guests have dragged to a stop, content to watch the show in front of them rather than make a poor attempt at mimicking.

Lena can’t pull her eyes away. There’s a fluidness to the way they move, like their limbs are made of water. Lena doesn’t think she’s ever moved like that in her life. They don’t even have to look down at their feet, though their moves are so complicated Lena’s outside eyes can’t track where they are nor predict where they might be going. Kara spins her partner out away from her again, but when she pulls her back in she lifts her effortlessly, guiding her across her own body and they both sink low towards the floor, one leg braced and the other sliding on a sideways shoe. They’re up again in less than a second with next to no effort and _God,_ Lena is _enraptured_.

The audience applauds and, emboldened by the response, the two dancers grin at each other. The woman in the dress kicks her leg up again, but this time Kara catches it on her shoulder. As her partner throws herself backwards, her body going limp as a rag, Kara drags her feet along the ground, propelling them both backward, her partner completely at the whim of her movements, her strength. It’s clearly a move that requires a great amount of trust. Lena would be embarrassed by the gasp that escapes her without warning if it weren’t for the fact that several other guests have gasped, too. A few exclaimed “Oh!”s or “Oh my!”s ripple through the spectators.

Kara picks her partner back up and spins her out again. The woman allows the momentum to carry her much further, spinning towards the edge of the circle three, four, _five_ times before she draws to a stop. She turns to her partner and grins, taking a few steps in before she throws, no, _launches_ herself into Kara’s arms.

Kara catches her easily, and lifts her just as easily. With one hand braced on her partner’s waist and the other on her thigh she lifts her _above her head_. Her partner, at the apex of her height, twists in Kara’s hands and falls head-first towards the ground. Lena’s heart is in her throat and she feels like she can’t breathe for a long moment. More gasps from the crowd, but Lena at this point isn’t afraid for her. No one who dances as confidently as they do could be worried for their safety. Not with a partner like Kara.

Sure enough, Kara once again catches her easily, a hand on stomach and thigh, and dips her so that she’s nearly inverted, with one leg kicked up towards the ceiling and her face so close to the ground that she could kiss it, were she so inclined.

Lena hasn’t blinked in nearly two minutes. She thinks she could watch them all night.

When Kara pulls her partner out of her lift they both seem to spot something in the crowd. Straightening their clothes and looking red in the face, they share one more quick glance before they disperse into the applauding crowd. The woman in the dress grabs the nearest elderly gentleman and allows him to lead her softly around the dance floor, while Kara is quickly snatched up by a young woman who can’t be much older than Lena, though she dresses like she’s 35. She puts a hand on Kara’s shoulder, low enough to nearly be obscene, and cranes her neck to whisper something into the dancer’s ear.

Lena’s own ears go pink and she turns away from the scene quickly, hoping that her staring hasn’t been too obvious.

“Lucy,” Mr. Grant calls the instructor over, beckoning with a finger. The woman in the dress sighs as she moves towards him. Lena can see them muttering hurriedly, obviously a bit angry. Lena tries to peer at them over her partner’s head, but Adam keeps spinning her so her back is to them, a hand firm on her lower back so she can’t pull away. He simply grins up at Lena, swaying where he stands, completely unbothered by the fuss around them. Lena tries to return his smile to the best of her ability, and when she looks back up Lucy and Mr. Grant have parted ways.

“Having fun, kids?” Lionel asks, dancing over with Lillian.

“Oh yeah, the best time. But I have to excuse myself,” Adam looks regretful. Lena feels anything but. “I’m in charge of the games tonight. Say, would you like to come along with me and get everything set up?”

“Sure she would!” Lena’s father answers for her.

The decision is made for her.

. . . .

She certainly didn’t anticipate spending the first night of her vacation sideways, with her legs scrunched into a tiny wooden box that’s only half the length of her body while a man in a silly purple turban with a gaudy red feather sticking out of the top pretends to saw her in half. She stares out at the audience, all the old people staring back at her, laughing as the man above her attempts to crack jokes (“This’ll only hurt for a second!” “Hey, you’ve got Blue Cross, right?”) and thinks that, really, this is probably the summer she deserves. Well-resuméd men being presented to her one after the other, the implication clear upon each meeting ( _Look at this young man, isn’t he charming, isn’t he pleasant, doesn’t he have a good earning-potential, won’t he make just a prefect husband, Lena_?), stuck in a tiny cabin with her entire family for two months with no escape route in sight, forced to spend her days learning how to dance with people three times her age or else amuse herself with lawn games.

She’d been so excited to come to Grants, assuming — apparently naively — that a vacation would actually mean _vacation._ A way of escaping her responsibilities. Spending time at the lake, eating good food, reading, saying goodbye to her childhood. But she hasn’t even had a moment to read since getting here, something that _must_ be contributing to her foul mood. She brought an entire case of books with her in anticipation of free time she now is skeptical she will ever have, and maybe it’s from the dancing or her headache, but she’s cranky.

Then again, that might just be the saw that’s supposed to be cutting through her lower intestine.

Lena wonders, sometimes, if her life is an absurdist comedy, or if it only seems that way.

The magician and his assistant pull the boxes apart. He bends low next to her head and says, teasingly, lasciviously, to the roaring approval of the audience, “Was that good for you?”

And as a token of their ‘appreciation’ for being such a good sport, they present her with a bow-wrapped live chicken at the end of the routine.

What’s she supposed to do with a chicken?

She slips away from the show without another word, leaving the chicken somewhere inside. It’s been hours since the sunset, but Lena doesn’t feel like going back the family cabin just yet. She hasn’t had more than a few moments to herself all day, and she’s not inclined to spend the rest of her evening listening to Lex snore.

She cuts to the left, away from the cabins, and starts wandering up through the woods, feet following the lighted post dirt path. She keeps walking for a while, curious. She doesn’t remember seeing this part of the resort on the map. There’s a sound up ahead of her, something quiet but melodic; a song Lena’s never heard before, calling to her softly from within the trees. She thinks, absurdly, of fairies luring children away from their homes, never to be seen or heard from again. She doesn’t turn back.

The path cuts up through the beginning of the forest that surrounds _Grant’s._ There’s a small white bridge that leads to a set of stairs, precariously built into the side of the mountain. They go up twenty, thirty feet maybe, before they hit a large house-shaped structure. Lena would call it a house except it’s much too large, so it more resembles a warehouse. There’s light pouring out of the windows, and music must be blaring from within because Lena can hear the straining notes, all the way down here. She draws closer, her feet soft upon the bridge, peering up, ever more curious.

So focused is she that she doesn’t notice until too late the posted sign that says ‘ _STAFF QUARTERS NO GUEST ENTRANCE’._

She hadn’t meant to walk along the path for long, only to clear her head. But after she heard the sound of music, she couldn’t help herself. She’s curious, drawn forward unconsciously with her eyes trained up towards the sound.

That’s when she finally notices a young man struggling at the bottom of the steps, his arms laden with what look to be watermelons. Four of them, huge and swelling with juice. He bobbles them precariously, and Lena rushes forward without thinking. She catches one right as it’s about to fall.

The man breathes a sigh of relief. “Hey, thanks—” he sees who it is and pulls back. “How’d you get here?”

“I was taking a walk.”

“Go back.”

“Let me help you.”

“No.” He shakes his head, eyes wide.

“What’s up there?”

“No guests allowed. House rules. Why don’t you go back to the Playhouse? I saw you dancing with the little boss man. Hmm hmmm hmm,” he hums, teasingly.

Lena shoves the watermelon back to his chest and the man wobbles, eyes wide. He chews his lower lip as his hands slip around the fruit, unable to keep all four balanced _and_ make the climb to the house. “Look, okay, alright. Alright! Can you keep a secret?” Lena comes back and grabs the watermelon. He lets out a puff of air, relieved. “Your parents would kill you. _Max_ would kill _me_. So let’s try not to let anybody get killed over this, okay?”

Lena nods and follows him up the stairs.

He pushes the doors open with his butt and nearly drops the remaining watermelons. He fumbles with them as they slip in and out of his grasp, before he manages to get his hands firmly around the rinds. He grins triumphantly at Lena, who is staring at the scene in front of her with something akin to panic.

Whatever she _thought_ she might find at the staff quarters, it wasn’t this.

All around are couples dancing together. Vulgar, grinding dances the likes of which Lena’s never seen before. Men carrying women around their waists, their pelvises rubbing together in time to the beat. Men dancing with men, backs pressed to fronts, lips ghosting hot over necks. The couples’ arms are thrown around each other and they’re all wearing _far_ less clothing than Lena thinks is generally appropriate, in mixed company like this. Tank tops and impossibly tight shorts (Lena didn’t know clothing _came_ that tight) and dirty jeans, shirts that hang loose and untucked, skirts that barely cover thighs. Shirtless men touching women on their rear ends. Lena is stunned speechless.

“Where’d they learn to do that?”

“Where?” The man laughs. “I don’t know. Kids learn to do it in the basements back home.” He grins at her. “Wanna try it?” Lena looks at him panicked. “Come on, Baby,” he says with a laugh. “I’m Winn, by the way. I’m one of the entertainers in the band. I sing.” Lena can’t think to say anything to him. She doesn’t ask how he knows her name. Bu she’s a Luthor; people tend to know who they are.

Winn is unbothered by her unnatural silence. He leads her through the party, his watermelons tucked under both arms. Lena scoots through the rabble clutching her watermelon to her chest like it’s her only protection. When Winn finally deposits his fruit on a table piled high with drinks, Lena is sorry to lose her crutch.

Winn catches sight of the expression on her face and seems tickled by it. “Can you imagine dancing like this on the main floor? Home of the family foxtrot?” He laughs again. He does that a lot. Lena’s never met someone who laughs as much as him. “Max would close the place down first.”

A cheer erupts from the crowd and the woman from before — _Kara_ , Lena knows her name is Kara, she needs to start using it without modifiers — walks in, hand-in-hand with her partner, Lucy. She’s wearing a pair of black pants and a shirt that’s unbuttoned almost all the way to her navel. Lena licks her lips subconsciously, and she cranes her neck just a little to peer at the curious pair as they weave their way through the press of other young couples.

Lena can’t stop watching them. But now, in this dark room, away from her parents’ prying eyes and Lex’s obvious disgusted judgment, away from Adam and his lead-coated hands, Lena has the time to look at them. At _her,_ really. Kara.

She has short-cropped hair; a man’s haircut almost, but softer and taller, more lift and pouf and bounce than the men Lena knows like to wear it. Her lips are soft and feminine, her chin sharp and cutting. It’s a confusing mix of style for Lena to take in. She has to squint and stare at her closer, to be sure she isn’t mistaken about the sex of the person in front of her. But no, she’s definitely a woman. A _handsome_ woman to be sure, but a woman nonetheless. She’s dressed like a man but the white button down she’s wearing gives away her womanly shape. It gapes in the center of her chest, several buttons left undone, but it also clings to slight swell of her breasts. Her shoulders are broad, her arms large and straining against her rolled-up sleeves, like she’s bought something a size too small for her. Her arms are tightly controlled in their movements and Lena’s eyes, for some reason, are drawn to the shape of them, the _strength_ of them and she—

She clears her throat. “Why does Mr. Grant let two women dance like they do in front of customers?” she shouts over the music.

Winn leans closer, to make himself easier to hear. “Oh, he doesn’t! I think if it were up to him, we’d all be fired. Cat’s the one who really lets us stick around. She’s always looking out for us. Besides, Kara and Lucy are the best dancers we have, and they’re a real hit with the older folks. Kara’s my cousin, actually. She got me the job here this summer.” Lena glances at him, trying to see the familial resemblance, but finding none, she turns back to the much more interesting sight in front of her. “Anyway,” Winn calls over the music, “Mr. Grant tried taking them out of rotation a few summers back, he split them up and everything, but there were so many complaints that eventually he just let it be. As long as they don’t do anything too crazy, he lets them stay partnered up.”

Lena eyes the gyration happening in front of her with… not _awe,_ exactly, and not exactly _confusion,_ but something in between. There’s a strange sensation curling in her gut, and a heat creeping up her neck that she’s not particularly used to. “Crazy like that?” She points towards the middle of the floor, then realizes how stupid she must look and drops her hand at once.

But Winn’s clearly been watching the same scene she’s been watching. “Yeah,” he says, laughing. “Crazy like that.”

They’re dancing like… well, Lena’s not sure _what_ they’re dancing like, only that she’s _never_ seen two people dance like that, before. Much less two _women._ They’re dancing close together, like _lovers_ , their bodies pressed impossibly tight, their hips gyrating, pressing into each other and then pulling back like a tease. Lena’s skin grows hotter but she can’t look away. It looks like… well, it looks like _sex_ (or whatever Lena’s approximation of _sex_ is — she doesn’t exactly have much _experience_ in that arena), what with their legs slotted together the way they are, their hands on each others hips, their foreheads pressed together, their breasts brushing with every breath and that… but they’re _women, together,_ and women can’t… they…

Lena feels her brain spark and stutter to a stop, like a circuit board gone haywire.

The song ends with the two women caught up together in an embrace, their mouths only an inch apart, and Lena feels gripped with such a powerful embarrassment that she has to turn her head and look away. Her eyes land on Winn, who had been watching the same spectacle as she, and he’s smiling amusedly, a little ruefully, and Lena can’t quite understand that reaction. She’s just witnessed something alien, something profound, something frightening and exhilarating in equal measure. The realization that she’s the only one who’s feeling this way is nearly as unsettling as watching the dance itself.

“Who brought her?” a voice loudly (and rudely) asks from in front of them.

Lena startles and jumps and, for reasons she cannot quite fathom, _blushes._ Her eyes flit quickly up to meet the disapproving glare of the powerful woman whom she had just been rather noticeably ogling. Kara is eyeing Lena carefully, clearly distrustful. Lena’s blush only grows and she bites her lip and looks away.

“That’d be me.” Kara’s eyes flick towards Lena’s companion. “Sorry, Kara, I didn’t—”

“It’s a private event, Winn.”

“Right, I know, but—”

“I carried a watermelon.”

Kara turns to her slowly. She cocks an eyebrow, looking simultaneously cold and dismissive. “What?”

Lena swallows. “That’s why I’m here. I carried a watermelon.”

“…Great. You’re responsible for her. I’m not taking the fall for this.” Kara shoots one last angry glare at Winn before she peels away, back into the mass of bodies.

Lena releases a breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding. “I carried a _watermelon?_ ” she mutters under her breath, already deeply mortified.

Winn puts a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Hey, it’s alright. Kara’s bark is bigger than her bite. If you don’t cause trouble, there won’t be no trouble.”

Lena goes back to watching the dancers, feeling invisible and young and out of her depths, but also _warm_ and _exhilarated._ She’s never seen so many young people all in one space, dancing the way they’re dancing. They’re all coupled up, off in their own worlds. They’re a mass of bodies heaving together, like the swelling tide, but look closer and they’re all setting their own individual beats, their individual styles. They stare into each other’s eyes, a few of them _kiss,_ and they all look happier than Lena’s ever felt in her entire life.

Someone dances in front of her, and Lena blinks. Kara is staring at her, still moving her hips. She quirks her finger, beckoning in Lena’s direction, and Lena blinks again, looks behind her as if expecting to see someone else. When no one else seems to notice her (even Winn’s attention has been pulled somewhere else), she turns back to find Kara smirking at her. She beckons with her head next, and Lena pauses for just long enough to take a sharp breath.

She feels awkward in her frumpy dress and oversized sweater, unattractive and bulky. She’s always been on the heavier side of skinny. Not _heavy_ heavy, but she carries extra weight in certain areas of her body, something that’s always caused her anxiety. Her legs are too large, her stomach too soft and squishy. She has prominent hips and even more prominent breasts — they came in when she was fairly young, and she received endless torment over them while still in school. She’s never quite grown comfortable with her body. Maybe that’s why she so favors sweaters and layers over the sundresses that are more fashionable with her peers.

Kara places Lena an arms-length away from her. They’re facing each other, and Lena worries her lip. “Follow what I do,” Kara says quietly as she starts to move her hips in a calculated pattern.

Lena tries to do as she says. She moves her hips much slower than Kara, with much less finesse, and she feels she must stick out like a sore thumb amongst this crowd. She glances around them, trying to see if anyone else has noticed her miserable attempts to fit in, but Kara touches her shoulder and draws her back in.

“Don’t look at them,” she says. “Watch my eyes. Okay?” Lena swallows and keeps her gaze locked with Kara’s. It’s almost uncomfortable. The intensity carved into Kara’s face combined with the piercing blue of her eyes. Lena feels like she’s being undressed. “Good,” Kara says, and Lena hadn’t even realized that she’d been mirroring her movements.

Kara’s almost smiling now. “Good,” she says with a little laugh. Lena can feel the tension sliding off of her. “That’s better. Much better.” She takes a step in, bringing their hip bones together, and Lena’s heart stutters at the proximity but she doesn’t stop moving her hips.

Kara’s hands seem to burn straight through her. It doesn’t matter that Lena’s wearing a frumpy dress and a thick cardigan. Kara’s hands come to her waist and rest there, and Lena might as well be naked.

She presses her body against Kara’s almost impulsively, like her movements are not her own. Kara’s eyebrow twitches, and she looks like she wants to say something, but she doesn’t. This close Lena can feel every inch of her, every strong muscle, every curve, every bone. It makes her feel doubly strange about her own body. She wonders what Kara must think of her. How large she must feel, especially compared to Lucy’s lithe form. How clumsy her limbs, how unseemly her breasts and stomach.

“Hey,” Kara says to her quietly, and Lena’s eyes jump to hers immediately. “I can hear you thinking from here. Stop it. You can’t dance if you’re thinkin’ that hard.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. Just… stop worrying. You’re already here. Might as well have some fun with it.” The song changes and she smiles. “Here, now roll this way.” She changes the direction of her hip movement, and Lena scrambles to follow her. There’s a light sheen of sweat on Kara’s forehead, probably because it must be over 90 degrees in this room. Lena’s own hair has started to escape from its ponytail, little wisps falling down to frame her face, stick to her skin. She’s breathless from it — the heat, the room, the dancing.

Kara’s hands are soft, barely glancing over her skin. She slides them up Lena’s torso, hooks them behind her arms and throws Lena’s arms gently around her shoulders. She grins now, full-force. “You’re not too bad at this,” she says quietly, her mouth only inches from Lena’s ear. Lena shivers and grinds against her a little harder. Their legs have slotted together and Lena’s body burns with every touch, every movement. There’s an aching inside of her, someplace below her belt is throbbing and she doesn’t know why. Kara has two arms around her waist and she smells like shampoo and grass and a little bit like sweat and Lena grips the back of her neck like her life depends on it, her fingers slipping over Kara’s damp skin.

The song ends and Kara spins her away and Lena flies with it, turns and turns and turns and feels untouchable, powerful, maybe even _sexy_ and she draws to a laughing stop in the center of the floor. The couples around her clap and cheer while another song begins playing, but Kara has disappeared.

Lena tries not to let the disappointment sour within her, but it’s a little too late for that. She clears her throat and brushes her hair away from her eyes, smooths her hands down the front of her skirt, and picks her way back towards the side of the dance floor with her head held as high as she can manage.

When she gets back to Winn, the only friendly face among the crowd, he smirks at her. He looks at her like he knows something she doesn’t, and Lena doesn’t like it. “What?” she snaps at him.

He shrugs. “Nothing. You looked good out there.”

Her face is already flushed and overheated, but Lena can’t help but grow hotter at his words. She fans herself quickly with her hand, hoping to mitigate the worst of it. “I’ve never seen anyone dance like that. I’ve never danced like that.”

“You don’t get out much, do you?” Lena pretends not to hear him. Winn’s attention is elsewhere anyway; he perks up, raising a hand. “Oh Alex, hey.” He waves his hand, flagging another woman down. She’s wearing a plain black t-shirt and a pair of dark jeans, and her hair is also cropped short and dyed an unnatural shade of red. Not a trashy red, like some of the older women Lena’s seen at the lodge already today, trying painfully to hide their true age under the façade of youth. Hers is a dark color, rich and intentional and subtle. It catches the light as she moves, making it shine brighter. She smiles at Winn before she catches sight of Lena. Her smile is a frown almost before Lena can blink. “This is Baby,” Winn explains quickly, like he’s trying to get ahead of whatever scolding is coming his way. “She’s one of the guests staying here this summer.”

The woman — Alex — just stares at Lena. “ _What’s_ your name?”

“Oh, it—” Lena fumbles— “it’s Lena. Baby’s just a nickname.”

Alex snorts. “Yeah, okay. I’m good with Lena. If you aren’t my girl or in diapers, I’m not calling you ‘Baby’.”

Lena blinks. Winn is chewing on his lip. “She’s kidding!” he exclaims, a little too loudly for the room they’re in. “Hahaha, classic Alex! Always cracking jokes.”

Alex rolls her eyes. “Whatever. You seen Sam?”

Winn shakes his head. “Not since dinner.” He notices Lena staring and clears his throat. “Baby, this is Alex. She’s also my cousin.”

“How many cousins do you have here?”

“Just the two. Alex and Kara are sisters.” That’s surprising information, too. Lena blinks at the woman in front of her, at her red hair and her wry scowl, the cut of her shoulders and the way she stands. If it weren’t for her haircut and masculine style, Lena never would have connected her to the blonde dancer currently drawing the adoration of all the other party-goers.

Lena sticks out her hand. “Nice to meet you,” she says, and Alex stares at her, then at her hand, but doesn’t take it. Lena swallows and lets it fall back to her side, useless and limp.

Alex turns to Winn. “If you see Sam, tell her I’ll be in our cabin.”

“Yup!” Winn squeaks, shooting a quick sideways look at Lena. “I’ll tell… um, I’ll tell Sam. That. Yup.”

Alex rolls her eyes again and peels away. She disappears a moment later, and Winn sighs, relaxing at once.

“You’re scared of your cousin?” Lena asks him, hardly believing it. Winn is rather small in stature, and he doesn’t look much of a fighter, but still; his cousin is a _woman._ Surely he has no reason to be afraid of her.

Winn just dabs at his brow. “She’s terrifying. Truly. I accidentally crashed her bike once when we were kids and she broke my wrist.”

Someone in the crowd has caught Lena’s attention again. Winn’s voice fades into the background, and Lena hardly notices. It’s hard to notice anything else when either of the dancers get going, and this time it’s Lucy who’s cutting a path through the gyrating crowd. There’s a black man dancing with her. He’s very large — well over six feet — with broad shoulders that dwarf his partner. He’s also bald, and his head shines with perspiration under the light. Lena watches as he falls to his knees, his hands pushing Lucy’s skirt up her thighs. For one horrifying (thrilling?) moment Lena thinks he’s about to strip her naked and have his way with her right here, on the crowded floor, but he lets her skirts fall back to her knees before anything more than pearly white thighs are revealed. He presses his face to her stomach, his lips open and his mouth wanting. He slides up her body, pressing open-mouthed, sloppy kisses to any piece of expose skin he finds. A strip of her stomach, her collar, her neck, her mouth—

Lena turns bright red and forces her eyes away. She’s never… well, she _certainly_ isn’t _prejudiced,_ but she’s never actually _seen_ a mixed-race couple in person, before. Of course she’s very progressive, all for civil rights and whatnot, but there’s something rather _shocking_ about the image and she’s uncomfortable, though she can’t be sure whether it’s her innate reaction or the shame resulting from that reaction that’s making her feel so queasy.

“I think,” she says to Winn, breathless for all the wrong reasons, “I better go. My father will be expecting me back. I don’t want him to worry.”

“Sure,” Winn says easily. “Well, it was nice to meet you, Baby.” He points at her. “And don’t go tellin’ your daddy about what you saw here, alright? It’s none of his business. We keep to ourselves and we don’t cause trouble.”

“Of course. I wouldn’t dream of it. Thank you, Winn,” she says, sincerely. “Tonight was… illuminating.”

“Sure. Call it illuminating. Don’t fall down on your way home, Baby, alright?”

“Okay,” Lena says. “I won’t.”

The night air is wonderfully cool. Lena takes a heaving lungful, then another, and collapses against the side of the house. Her fingers shake, as do her knees, and it takes her another few seconds of breathing before she manages to straighten herself.

When her father asks where she’d been later that night, with a smile on his face, Lena tells him “Charades.”

Lex just scoffs at her. “Look at you, the participator.”

Lena doesn’t mention the house on the hill, nor the dancing, nor the people likely still enjoying themselves within. She doesn’t mention Kara, or Lucy, or Winn; doesn’t speak of the feeling that’s still buzzing under her skin, worming its way through her stomach as it settles, low and aching, between her thighs. She rubs her legs together and her breathing is short and ragged, but she rolls over onto her side and tries at a fitful night’s sleep, anyway.

________________

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on [ tumblr.](https://morningsound15.tumblr.com/)


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